Hurricane George
by JWood201
Summary: 1978.  The Castaways have been rescued and just arrived back in Honolulu.  Two people arrive from the mainland and poor Gilligan is not prepared.
1. Lunch

_1978. The castaways have just been towed into Honolulu Harbor on their "huts-boat." But that's the only connection to __Rescue from Gilligan's Island__. There are no Russians following Gilligan. Herbert Rucker does not exist. Some of the castaways' relationships may not be the same. (Remember that they're all 15 years older! Gilligan is around 36)._

**Hurricane George**

Gilligan squirms uncomfortably in his chair.

He coughs. Drops his napkin.

He glances at the Skipper. The captain is staring at him evenly, warning him.

Gilligan turns away, tries to casually lean his elbow on the table, but then remembers that Mrs. Howell told him it was bad manners and so he changes his mind, but it's too late. His elbow slips and his chin nearly hits the edge of the table. He flails for a minute, rattling the china and flipping his spoon into the air. It clatters onto the empty chair on his right. If Mary Ann hadn't gotten up to go to the ladies room it would have hit her square in the face.

From his left, Gilligan hears the Skipper sigh.

On the opposite side of the table, two pairs of eyes are watching him closely. The woman, approaching 60, beautiful in a wholesome yet strong way, is smiling gently. She looks amused. But the man is squinting at Gilligan, burly arms folded across his chest. He's perplexed, suspicious, totally out of his element, but he doesn't let it show. He looks too big for the table. He reminds Gilligan of Johnny Appleseed or Matt Dillon. He just needs a coonskin cap or a cowboy hat. He probably has the latter somewhere. He fills the space solidly, like the Skipper, pinning you down with his eyes as he tries to figure you out.

While he's already halfway under the table, eager to stay out of sight for as long as possible, Gilligan grabs for his fallen spoon, nearly tumbling off his chair. He resurfaces for a second to drop the spoon onto his plate, loudly, and then ducks back down to search the floor for his lost napkin.

The Skipper sighs again, glances at their visitors regretfully, and opens his mouth to apologize when the whole table suddenly shakes. China rattles. The woman's coffee splashes over the edge of her cup. There's a muffled sound from under the table.

Gilligan reappears, his cloth napkin victoriously clutched in one hand, his other hand pressed over the growing welt on the top of his head. His hat would have cushioned the blow, but the Skipper wouldn't let him wear it at the table. Gilligan quickly sits up straight, smiles sheepishly.

The Skipper glares daggers at him. The woman smiles a little wider. The man narrows his eyes a little more.

Gilligan squirms again.

Two days ago, on October 17, 1978, three days after the castaways were towed into Honolulu Harbor on their makeshift huts-boat, a storm blew in from the east, traveling 3,615 miles from the heartland of America.

Hurricane George descended on Hawaii. And he brought his wife with him.

They made landfall in a whirlwind of gingham and tears, eager to see it for themselves, not willing to wait to see their niece and find out what happened. Mary Ann squealed and leapt into her uncle's arms and he spun her around and called her _darlin'_ and then peered over her shoulder at Gilligan, who hid behind the Skipper.

Aunt Martha was like a summer rain shower, bright and sunny. She smelled like hay and fresh dough and Midwestern sun and she fawned over Gilligan, looking him up and down like she was appraising him for the county fair. She peppered them with questions, stories, and updates on all of Mary Ann's friends and cousins. Who got married, who had a baby, who moved away, whose shipping heiress wife left him in the dust. But mostly who got married and who had a baby, which she emphasized with a wink and a not so subtle nudge in Mary Ann's ribs. She wanted to know everything about everyone, but had more questions than there was time to answer. Fifteen years worth of news and nagging and curiosity had built up inside her and she released it all at once in a torrential downpour of love and affection, all while never letting go of her niece's hand for fear of her floating away again.

Uncle George was like a hurricane before it struck, perpetually looming on the horizon, brooding and watching you, trying to decide if it wanted to ruin your day or not. He greeted Mary Ann with open arms and a wide smile and a twinkle in his eye. He shook the Skipper's hand firmly and clapped him on the back and thanked him for keeping his niece safe. Then he turned to Gilligan, who squeaked and called him "sir" and the Skipper rolled his eyes. George watched him evenly for a second. It felt like half an hour to Gilligan and the sailor tried to act casual, but he tripped over his own feet and the Skipper had to catch him. George narrowed his eyes and Gilligan gulped. Then George turned to the Skipper, eager to ask about all the gory details of their ordeal – navigating the storm, the Professor's inventions, dealing with the natives, but mostly about farming the tropical landscape.

The two men wandered off, leaving Gilligan behind alone until Martha took his face in her hands and squeezed his cheeks and told him he was just the cutest thing she'd seen since Harold Higgenbotham's pig popped out two little baby piglets right in the middle of his living room carpet. Gilligan thanked her, but Mary Ann was laughing, so he wasn't sure if he should have.

Gilligan squirms uncomfortably in his chair.

It's too quiet in the restaurant. Glasses clink and soft instrumental music plays somewhere.

All three men are out of place, but George has planted himself at the table like he doesn't notice, leaning back in his tiny chair, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the young sailor.

It's too fancy here, but no one wants to bring it up. The poor Skipper is trying so hard to make this easier for Gilligan. He's glaring at first mate again – _say something_.

"Mrs. Summers?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I ..." Gilligan tries not to glance at George, but the more he tries not to, the more he can't help it. The man is watching him with heightened interest. "I ... I forgot." Gilligan looks down at his lap where he's twisting his napkin tightly.

The Skipper sighs, loudly this time. He's not even trying to be subtle anymore. He wishes he had his cap on so he could hit Gilligan with it.

Gilligan tugs on his collar. The Skipper made him tuck in his shirt and button the top button like when they'd go to one of Mrs. Howell's fancy cotillion parties with the tiny sandwiches and the music that always made Mary Ann try to dance with him.

Gilligan looks around the restaurant as if it's the most interesting place he's ever seen. Mary Ann's been in the ladies room for what feels like three hours now. What could she possibly be doing in there? At least when she's at the table Martha is so busy telling her what everyone she's ever met has been up to for the past decade that Gilligan couldn't say anything even if he wanted to.

Gilligan glances at the Skipper. The captain is still glaring at him. A faint crimson is spreading up his neck from under the collar of his blue polo shirt. His shirt is also formally buttoned all the way up, his ancient skinny necktie nearly choking him. The red creeps up onto the Skipper's face. Gilligan is sure that he's going to explode right there in the middle of the fancy restaurant when a sudden voice behind him makes him jump and fling all his cutlery onto the floor again.

"Hi!"

Gilligan instantly leaps to his feet, partly because Mrs. Howell trained him to do so when a lady approaches and partly because he's never been so happy to see Mary Ann in his entire life.

Mary Ann settles back into her chair. "What did I miss?"

"Absolutely nothing," her uncle drawls.

Mary Ann reaches up and lays a gentle hand on Gilligan's arm. He's poised, ready to bolt at any moment, trying to decide if he wants to make a break for freedom. "Gilligan." He looks down at her and seems to regain some focus. "Sit down. Relax." He obeys and she pats his arm.

"So, what do you do for a living, boy?" George shifts and his chair creaks.

"I ... um ... well ... well, we just got back." This is the longest sentence Gilligan has said to the man yet.

"Gilligan was in the Navy, Uncle George." Gilligan is gripping the wooden arm of the chair so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. Mary Ann grins proudly at him and lays her hand over his, squeezing it comfortingly.

Martha's eyes light up. "Oh! Well, we girls always appreciate a man in uniform. Isn't that right, Mary Ann?" Mary Ann nods enthusiastically and the women laugh. Gilligan smiles a little, uncertainly.

But his face falls when Gilligan notices George staring blatantly at Mary Ann's hand on top of his on the arm of the chair. Gilligan gulps and tries to subtly slide his hand out from under hers, but Mary Ann slips her hand under his palm and laces her fingers through his, holding his hand right out there in the open for everyone to see. Gilligan glances around frantically, eyes wide. Martha is grinning at them. He knows Mary Ann is just trying to reassure him, but with her uncle staring at him like that Gilligan's positive that he's going to drop dead of a heart attack within the next ten seconds.

"Really?" George asks without looking up from their hands. "The Navy? A little pipsqueak like you?"

"Yes, sir," he squeaks and then winces.

"Oh, Uncle George! Be nice! Gilligan's a fine sailor. He's the best swimmer I've ever seen, too. One time, he..." Mary Ann keeps talking, her voice fading out as Gilligan notices that she's pulled his hand closer to her. Gilligan is now leaning to the right, the arm of his chair digging into his ribs, his hand firmly enclosed in both of hers.

Against his better judgment, Gilligan glances up at George. He's raised his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes at the same time. Gilligan's not sure if that's possible, but it's terrifying. Gilligan tears his gaze away and feels the first real strains of panic rising up inside him. He's breathing heavily, nearly gasping for air. Mary Ann keeps chatting happily with her aunt and innocently rests her hands in her lap. Gilligan feels the fabric of her skirt brush his knuckles and his eyes widen. His legs slip out from under him as if he was going to try to run but forgot he was sitting down. Gilligan's head snaps up and he gapes shamelessly at George, eyes wide as saucers, waiting for the man to make a move.

But George doesn't move a muscle. Only his gaze shifts, very slightly. He looks Gilligan straight in the eye and the sailor knows instantly that George saw all three hands disappear below the edge of the table.

Mary Ann sails blithely on in her conversation, completely oblivious to the homicide being premeditated on the other side of the table.

Gilligan has been pulled halfway out of his chair, his right arm stretched across half of Mary Ann's body and his hand seized tightly in hers, when he comes to a sudden realization. Mary Ann doesn't love him. She hates him. She's trying to get him killed.

Gilligan waits until Mary Ann is so absorbed in her conversation that her grip relaxes to begin trying to free himself, gradually, slowly, but blinded with purpose. The sooner he gets his hand out of her lap the more likely it is that he'll live to see tomorrow.

Gilligan works at reclaiming his hand slowly, subtly, eyes fixed blindly on the tablecloth, terrified to meet anyone's gaze. He gets their hands back up onto the arm of his chair and instantly feels twenty times better. Mary Ann, Martha, and the Skipper are talking around him. George grunts a two word response only when spoken to and Gilligan knows he's watching him. He can feel it.

Only a few of the words floating around him actually land and register with Gilligan. They're still talking about all of Mary Ann's cousins back in Kansas. There are a lot of them, so he has ample time to work with. Gilligan continues laboring to free his captive hand until one full sentence cuts through his concentration to trumpet through his consciousness loud and clear.

"Gracie doesn't remember me?" Mary Ann whispers, her breath catching in her throat, and Gilligan looks up.

There's silence from the other side of the table. Martha looks down at her plate. "Mary Ann, she was only three years old."

On the day Mary Ann left for Hawaii, little Grace Summers tugged on her cousin's skirt, pouting up at her. _My Ann coming back?_ Mary Ann knelt down in front of her in the yard and gathered her into her arms. _I promise._

Mary Ann is staring at her aunt and uncle. "She asked for you for a long time," Martha says quietly. "But she was so little. One day she just stopped."

Mary Ann turns to look at Gilligan, blinking the moisture back from her eyes.

Gilligan stops trying to free himself. He knows that heartbroken look well, and so he squeezes her hand instead.

George doesn't miss this and he frowns thoughtfully. Finally, Martha clears her throat and collects herself. "Well, come on, now. This is supposed to be a celebration. Why don't we get to know William a little better?" Gilligan doesn't look up; he's still watching Mary Ann. She's blinking vaguely at her water glass. "Dear?"

Gilligan's head snaps up and he stares at Martha dumbly. "Oh. That's me." He smiles sheepishly.

Martha grins at him, decides to start simply. "Where are you from?"

"Where am I ... ? Oh. Pennsylvania." He almost said the island.

"What else? Do you have any siblings?"

"A sister." Then he remembers. "And a brother." He feels the need to add, "This is his shirt."

Gilligan's relaxing a little. He's fine as long as he pretends George isn't there and as long as Martha asks him simple questions that he knows how to answer. Even the Skipper's starting to look cautiously relieved.

Martha makes a big show of trying to think up her next question. "What's your favorite color?"

"I ... um ... brown." Brown? Who likes brown?

"How many kids do you want?"

"Aunt Martha!"

"Oh, for God's sake, Martha!" George throws his napkin down on the table in frustration.

Martha looks around, wide eyed. "What? It's good to know!" She turns to Gilligan and adds earnestly, "We have six. They come in handy around the farm. Or the boat, I imagine."

"_Aunt Martha!_"

The Skipper holds his head in his hands. He can't even look at Gilligan. No one can, except Martha, who's fully expecting an answer. Even Mary Ann is staring down at the carpet. They hold their breath, bracing for the inevitable explosive reaction and disaster that would follow.

But it's eerily quiet from Gilligan's general direction. Maybe he finally passed out. He coughs, clears his throat quietly. "Um. Maybe I should get a dog first."

There's silence around the table and the others peer at him curiously. Gilligan's smiling, a little proud of himself. The Skipper exhales with relief. Martha laughs slightly at his joke, but is noticeably disappointed that he still didn't answer her question.

Mary Ann grins and leans toward him, taking Gilligan's arm with her free hand and pulling it close. "Gilligan's amazing with animals," she tells them. "You should see it. Birds, monkeys, anything. He charmed a fish out of the lagoon without a fishing pole once. He even tamed a lion." She leans closer and her chin brushes his shoulder. She gazes at him tenderly. "He'll be a wonderful father."

Gilligan turns to peer at her and flinches when he sees how close she is. Mary Ann is beaming at him lovingly, eyes wide and bright. He smiles back. For a minute everyone else disappears and they're back in one of their special places on the island – perched high in the banyan tree or swimming under the waterfall. Their noses touch and he suddenly realizes that she's going to kiss him right there in public in front of the Skipper and her aunt and uncle and a room full of strangers and God Himself.

Gilligan's eyes widen. Martha is halfway out of her chair, staring at them expectantly, like this is the greatest thing she's seen since that piglet incident. Gilligan glances at George and that's all the incentive he needs to leap from his chair. He doesn't quite make it to his feet as his legs tangle in the legs of the chair and he topples over backwards. Mary Ann lets go of his hand and calls out to him as his rear end connects with the back of the chair and it tips over, sending him heading for the floor. He grabs blindly in the air and ends up with a handful of tablecloth.

Plates and silverware and full coffee cups slide across the table as he falls. Mary Ann jumps up as glasses tip off the edge of the table and water pours onto her chair. George casually plucks up his coffee cup before it recedes from his reach.

Plates clatter as they're pulled from the table, half eaten lunches wasted. The giant piece of cake that the Skipper was really looking forward to, to numb the pain of this lunch, slides away from him and lands icing-down on Gilligan's shirt. The basket of bread overturns and miniature doughy boulders avalanche down on the first mate. The rolls bounce away across the carpet and the room fades into silence.

Everyone in the restaurant is gawking. A waiter freezes halfway through the kitchen door, a full tray of dishes balanced on his palm. Patrons raise their eyebrows, peer down their noses. Mary Ann stands over Gilligan, staring at him with worried horror, and the Skipper hides his face in his hands.

Gilligan is motionless beneath the stained and rumpled tablecloth and George gives his wife a look that causes Martha to frown and swat at him before he's even said anything. "The Navy, huh?"


	2. Boys Night Out

That night the Skipper rescues George from his wife and niece's severe double silent treatment. To repent for the disastrous lunch, he takes him to a place that only another man could understand – his usual haunt, Barnacle Bill's. Most of the regular crowd hasn't left since 1964 and when the Skipper bursts through the door, sans necktie and with his cap securely moored to his head again, they cry out, shout and cheer and applaud, welcome him back with tipsy toasts and open arms.

The two men belly up to the bar and the bartender promises to keep 'em coming, on the house, for as long as they want. Regular beer – none of that fancy stuff. No pink lady drinks with the little Hawaiian umbrellas. No tourist would dare set foot in this joint. It's dark and smoky, peanut shells snap and crackle under their feet, and there's an unspoken rule not to mention wives, yours or otherwise.

The Skipper and George are pals already, an instant bond formed of mutual respect and shared roles as leader and protector. One a master of the land and the other a master of the sea, together they could conquer anything Mother Nature conjured up.

Since neither man got to finish his lunch and because George Summers looks like a man who can appreciate and handle a trash can lid filled with meat, the Skipper slaps his hand down on the bar and announces that they will be undertaking the ultimate challenge – to finish Barnacle Bill's infamous Belly Buster. A chorus of cheers erupts around the bar and the staff yells out to the cook and George half expects a banner to unfurl and an emcee to appear from nowhere to referee.

Both men are two beers gone and sidestepping around discussing the obvious when the cook and the bartender emerge from the kitchen, each burdened with a metal trash can lid. The lids are piled high with a solid pound of French fries and the biggest hamburger in existence in the United States of America. The Skipper and George are relocated to a table so they can sit across from each other and eye their opponent, to intimidate and keep tabs on them. The regulars gather around like it's a boxing match, clutching their big frosted mugs of beer and leaning forward in anticipation. The two competitors squint at each other. George tucks a napkin into his collar. The Skipper removes his cap. Both stretch out their arms, crack their knuckles. The bartender sets his timer for half an hour.

Twenty nine minutes and forty seconds later, the commotion at Barnacle Bill's can be heard halfway down the block. Other guys have wandered in out of curiosity, drunks from next door, young sailors from the harbor, people off the street. Men of all ages and sobriety levels are gathered around the tiny table, yelling and cheering, taking up sides, throwing down bets.

George tosses his wadded up napkin victoriously onto the empty lid just as the Skipper shoves the last French fry into his mouth. Both claim victory, pointing at themselves, unable to talk around the last mouthful. They're so stuffed they have nowhere to put it. The Skipper's eyes widen and he shakes his head as he points at George, holds up his own empty trash can lid for the bartender to see. George is just as vehement and the crowd is even louder than before, shouting incoherent arguments for their favored eater. The cook and the bartender huddle for a brief conference and finally declare it a draw.

The Skipper and George are finally able to swallow the last bites and they drain their beer mugs to wash it down before shaking hands across the table. The cook clears the table and the crowd disperses, lurking back to their bar stools and their dark corners. The bartender disappears for a second, reappearing with a Polaroid camera to take the traditional celebratory picture.

The Skipper nods. "Impressive, Summers."

"I'd be in so much trouble if Martha saw that."

Around the bar the other men look up and shout unintelligibly at him, cover their ears, throw napkins at him, reprimanding the newcomer for breaking Barnacle Bill's golden rule: Do not mention your wife. It just reminds everyone else that they've got one somewhere.

The bartender returns with two little gold plastic hamburger trophies for the victors. He moves to the back wall of the bar and unceremoniously stabs a thumbtack through the top of their picture, posting it on the end of a long row of photographic proof that men will stuff themselves full of three times their stomach capacity of meat just to be able to say they did.

The Skipper and George stagger to their feet, the Belly Buster beginning to live up to its name and form a solid rock in the pit of their stomachs. They move to admire their photo on the wall, forever immortalized in the shrine. They're grinning at the camera, red-faced and bursting, arms around the other's shoulders and their glass beer mugs raised in triumph. They scan the other worthy champions on display: men in serious food comas, eyes half closed, drooling. One man is face down in the empty metal lid. When they get to the last picture in the row, they freeze.

"I'll be damned," George mutters.

It's Gilligan. Twenty-one years old and grinning widely, eyes bright and alert, his gold hamburger trophy raised jubilantly in one hand. An ice cream sundae sits next to the empty trash can lid on the table.

Gilligan beat the Belly Buster.

And then he had dessert.

"I'll be damned," George says again, shaking his head, and heads back to the table. He drops into his chair and leans back. He pulls another chair closer to him with his foot and props his feet up on the seat, groaning in discomfort. "How did he do it?"

The Skipper shuffles back to the table and leans his palms on the surface, lowering himself gently back into his seat. "I have no idea." The Skipper exhales in relief as he settles into the chair. "He can eat two whole coconut crème pies in one sitting."

George grimaces, waves his hand in the air to erase this last sentence. "Don't talk about food."

The Skipper nods, stares down into his fresh mug of beer. "He's a unique little guy, I'll say that."

"I think my ...," George glances around and then mouths the word 'wife' so the other patrons won't kick him out for breaking the golden rule twice, "is a little in love with him."

The Skipper chuckles into his mug. "Yeah, so's your ni—." The Skipper freezes and looks up at the man across the table.

But George is smiling a little, shaking his head and staring off into the corner. "Yeah, I can tell. I raised three daughters of my own. I know the signs. Plus, she's not very subtle."

The Skipper laughs again. He had noticed the way Mary Ann was watching Gilligan before the first hour of their three hour tour was up. On the island, she followed him around, baking for him and shamelessly telling him how wonderful he was, hoping desperately that one day he'd turn around and say the same to her.

"It still took Gilligan ten years to figure out what was going on – even _after_ the rest of us came right out and told him." The Skipper watches George closely. "He's terrified of you."

To his surprise, George smiles. Then he starts laughing. "I know!" he says, laughing harder. "When my oldest girl Rachel went on her first date, I set myself up on the porch and pretended to clean my gun. You should've seen that poor kid's face when he showed up and saw me. I said, 'What time are you bringing her home, boy?' and he squeaks out, 'Seven thirty, sir!' and I near about lost my mind laughing right there 'cause it was already seven o'clock when he came to get her." George is grinning, shaking his head in amusement. "God love him, that boy came back at seven thirty on the dot. I don't even think they made it all the way to town before they had to turn around and come back. Rachel didn't speak to me for a week." George turns to the Skipper and winks, whispering, "Neither did Martha, come to think of it." George stops to take a long gulp from the cold mug. When he speaks again, he's calm, almost reverent. "But that kid kept coming back. They're married now. Two kids. They named the older girl after Mary Ann when we thought she was ..." He looks down at the floor and his voice trails off, lets the rest of his thought float away into the smoky air in the bar.

The Skipper lets a moment of silence pass before a thought strikes him. "Wait a minute. You were doing that to Gilligan on _purpose_?"

George looks away, avoids the question. "You have any daughters, Skipper?"

"No."

"Any kids at all?"

The Skipper sighs, rolls his eyes. "Just Gilligan."

"Then you don't know the fun you missed out on."

The Skipper blusters something incoherent. He smacks his palm down on the table, puts his words in order. "Now, see here! I'm the only one who can torture my little buddy for sport!"

George pulls his feet off the chair and turns to face the Skipper properly. He rests his forearms on the table and leans forward earnestly. "It's not about sport, Skipper. It's about protecting your girls. You understand that."

"From savages and dehydration and hurricanes! Not selfless little guys like Gilligan!"

"That's not what I mean. I mean from ..." He frowns down at the table. George Summers can talk about wheat for three hours without taking a breath, but somehow he can't put this simple concept into words. He can't wrangle his thoughts securely enough to translate them into words and herd them out into the world.

"Mary Ann's boyfriend in high school turned out to be a real jerk. When he dropped her for some cheerleader, she was a mess and I said that would never happen again." George leans forward again and continues solemnly, "If I had done to him what I did to Rachel's boyfriend, he wouldn't have come back, I guarantee it. It wasn't worth it to him and we all would've been better off." George pauses again, looks up at the Skipper sincerely. "The point is that the boy comes back. If he comes back, then you know he's serious, that she's worth it to him. If he could live without her and never have to deal with me again, he would. But he can't. So he comes back. _That's_ what you want."

George points at the Skipper to emphasize this point and then sits back in his chair. The Skipper watches him closely. George is staring at him, waiting. He knows George wants him to tell him if Gilligan would go back.

Of course he'd go back.

The Skipper wants to tell him about Jonathan Kincaid, about how Gilligan was hunted. He wants to tell him about Rodriguez sentencing him to execution. About rescuing them all from the Japanese sailor. A man with a gun is old news to Gilligan.

The Skipper wants to tell him about how Gilligan saved his own life in the Navy and about the medal he got for it that no one else knows he has, not even Mary Ann.

He wants to tell him about Gilligan leaping into the lagoon when he heard Mary Ann shouting for help. About how he flew up onto the stage before anyone else had even blinked when she fainted. How he helped her with the laundry and the dishes and made her laugh when a severe storm blew in and she got scared. He wants to tell him about how angry Gilligan got when Mary Ann started hanging out with Duke Williams because he knew that the lost surfer was the kind of guy who would drop her for some cheerleader.

Duke Williams would not go back.

But these are too many words. Too many words will cheapen it, make it sound like he's pleading Gilligan's case. So instead he quietly says:

"He loves her."

George relaxes a little in his chair. "I know. I can tell."

"You _can_?"

"You didn't see what he did at lunch, did you?"

The Skipper frowns into his beer. "He did a lot of things at lunch." He cautiously peers up at George with one eye. "So you're ... okay with them?"

George doesn't look at him. He spins his frosted beer mug on the table, trails of condensation puddle in its wake. "I didn't say that."

"Why don't you like him?"

George heaves a sigh that could move mountains. "I _do_ like him. That's the problem. He's a sweet kid. A little scrawny, but they're good for each other. If we were in Kansas I'd have 'em married before Saturday. It's just that ..."

George trails off, stares down at the table, his mug clutched in both hands. "I can't get my brother back," he continues quietly. "I can't get Sarah back. But ... but we just got Mary Ann back and now –." George looks up at the Skipper. He looks sad, like he already knows the answer to his next question. "She's not gonna come home with us, is she?"


	3. Coming Back

Gilligan squirms uncomfortably in the hallway.

He shifts from foot to foot, anchoring himself to the plush hotel carpet. He stares at the door in front of him.

He hears movement inside the room, then voices. One voice rises above the other, "George Summers, that's the silliest thing I've ever seen in my life!"

"But ... but, darlin', I _won_! Look, it's a hamburger."

"I know. You showed it to me three times last night."

George and the Skipper had wandered back to the hotel well after one o'clock in the morning with a better understanding of each other and the confidence of knowing that they were the island's most recent conquerors of the infamous Belly Buster. George burst into his hotel room, golden hamburger trophy held aloft, grinning with tipsy accomplishment. He swept his wife up in his arms and kissed her and she half-heartedly punched him in the shoulder, pretending to be annoyed but unable to be truly angry at his enthusiasm.

The two men had talked for hours, drowned their sorrows in the endless free refills, and returned to the hotel three sheets to the wind and positively giddy. When they were each four beers deep, George awkwardly tried to ask the Skipper about the state of Gilligan and Mary Ann's relationship without actually asking any questions. Questions that Martha would just come right out and ask and the Skipper suspected that she would if she ever got him alone for five minutes. Questions that he suspected she was thoroughly embarrassing her niece with at this very moment. Questions that would confuse Gilligan and that the Skipper didn't know the answers to, thank goodness. But if he did, he wouldn't answer them even if he was drunk enough to want to engage in some good old fashioned sailor gossip.

The men told war stories, island stories, farming stories, Navy stories, Gilligan stories, happy stories, sad stories. Stories about Guadalcanal and movie stars and cows and millionaires and car accidents and Harold Higgenbotham's pig giving birth in the middle of his living room. They laughed a lot and maybe even cried a little, even though neither of them would ever admit it.

Gilligan stares at the brass numbers on the door. He wipes his sweating palms on his jeans.

He raises his hand to knock, then thinks better of it. He stares at the door some more.

Earlier that morning, Gilligan stood in front of the mirror in his hotel room, a white towel wrapped around his waist. The room was full of steam and the mirror had completely fogged up from another one of his hour long showers. He still couldn't get over having real plumbing again and he'd begun standing in there reveling under the endless stream of hot water until Mary Ann came looking for him or the hotel manager banged on his door to give him the water bill.

Gilligan rubbed away a circle of condensation so he could see his reflection to shave. He couldn't see Mary Ann sneaking up behind him. Her hair hung in wet coils across the shoulders of her big white fluffy hotel robe, her bare feet tip toeing stealthily across the tile.

Mary Ann reached out to tickle his sides. "Hi."

Gilligan yelped and jumped three feet in the air. The razor clattered into the sink and he whirled around, wide eyed and panting from the fright. "Mary Ann!" He gripped his towel tighter around his waist with both hands.

He had cut himself with the razor when he jumped and a small bead of blood had appeared on his jaw. "Gilligan! I'm sorry!" Mary Ann folded up a few tissues and wet them with cold water. She stood up on her toes to press the tissues gently over his injury.

"Mary Ann, I just got outta the shower!"

She smiled. "I know." His bare shoulder was damp beneath her hand. "So did I." The humidity in the bathroom was stifling. She was already sweating in the thick robe.

"How did you get in here?"

"We have connecting rooms."

Gilligan's eyes widened. "We do?"

"Sure. Where do you think that other door goes?"

Gilligan's mouth tipped thoughtfully, then he shrugged. "Narnia?" She laughed and he grinned.

Mary Ann checked the tissues and then folded them over, pressing a clean area over his cut jaw. She brushed his wet hair out of his eyes with her other hand. "Gilligan, you should go invite Uncle George and Aunt Martha to that park to see the waterfall you keep telling me about."

Gilligan pouted. "I want to go there just you and me."

Mary Ann smiled. "I know. So do I." Mary Ann turned his face to the side so she could see his injury in the hazy light of the misty bathroom. It stopped bleeding, so she removed the compress and slipped both arms around his neck. "But we can't just leave them in their room all day." Her fluffy robe tickled his chest and he squirmed a little.

"I know." Gilligan's brow furrowed and his lips pursed in concentration. "How 'bout I take them to the _Arizona_ Memorial instead? I think your uncle'd like that a lot better than flowers and waterfalls."

Mary Ann's eyes lit up and she beamed. "That's a great idea! Aw, Gilligan, you're wonderful." She said it the way she used to during their first year on the island and it made his heart swell.

Mary Ann leaned forward and kissed him once, gently, and then twice, and then a third time. One of his arms wound around her waist. "You smell like real soap," he mumbled, his nose in her hair and his cheeks buried between her neck and the fluffy collar of her robe. Mary Ann ran her nails down his arms and onto his stomach. She tickled his abdomen and he yelped in her ear. "Mary Aaannn, stop!" he whined against her neck, trying to scoot everything below his shoulders out of her reach and keep his towel on at the same time.

Mary Ann laughed and poked him in the gut. "Go get dressed."

"Okay." He lifted his head, kissed her on the cheek like a little boy, and started combing his hair in the mirror.

Mary Ann frowned down at the countertop. "Gilligan, this place is a mess." She began moving shaving cream and toothpaste out of the way. Puddles of water dotted the granite like little lakes. Mary Ann reached out a hand toward him. "Hand me a towel, would you?"

"Sure." Gilligan instinctively reached for the towel wrapped around his waist and then froze. "Mary Ann!" She laughed and he tucked the ends of the towel tighter around his body, gaping at her.

Mary Ann squealed as he lunged for her. She ducked around him and his momentum sent him crashing into the towel bar. She skipped from the bathroom and slipped through the door to her room. Gilligan reached the door just as he heard the lock slam into place and her delighted laughter from the other side.

Gilligan squirms uncomfortably in the hallway.

He takes a deep breath, raises his hand to knock again. He hesitates a moment, then his fist connects with the door twice, quickly, and returns to his side.

The door flies open and Gilligan flinches. George appears and plants himself in the doorway. He crosses his arms.

Martha peeks around her husband's arm and grins when she sees Gilligan. "Good morning, dear!"

Gilligan can't help but smile back at her. "Morning."

George looks less scary today. He's not glaring at Gilligan as intensely, but that might be due to the hangover he's nursing. He's wincing slightly under the harsh lights in the hallway.

When neither man says anything, Martha naturally jumps in. "I hear you have one of those silly hamburger trophies, too, William." She glances up at her husband, shakes her head a little, but then grins at Gilligan again, like it's not as silly when Gilligan wins one.

Gilligan smiles sheepishly, rubs the back of his neck. "Yes, ma'am."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks."

The hallway descends into silence again.

Martha gasps quietly. "What happened to your face?"

Gilligan's hand goes to the spot on his jaw. He pokes it and grimaces. He had already forgotten it was there. "Oh. I cut myself shaving. Mary Ann snuck up on me in the bathroom after we got out of the shower and I ..." Gilligan trails off when he notices George raise one eyebrow. "Not together!" he yells. Martha's grinning at him again, clearly with the wrong idea in her head, as always. "She was in her room!" Gilligan points off to the left with his right arm. "And I was in mine." He points off to the right with his left arm, tangles himself up. "Just ... just at the same time. She snuck up on me because our rooms connect!" His eyes widen. "Which – which I didn't know about until she snuck up on me! I'm gonna lock the door from now on, I promise!"

Gilligan stares at the wallpaper next to the door, eyes wide with horror. He did it again. He breaths heavily, gasping for air. Other than his labored breathing, the silence is palpable. The elevator dings as it passes their floor.

He's going to be killed right here in the middle of this hallway. These are his last moments. _Make them good. Pick a good thought to be your last, William Gilligan, because you're a goner this time._ He concentrates, focuses on a chocolate covered hamburger. No – the Belly Buster and the sundae chaser! Coconut crème pie. The pie plate is balanced on Mary Ann's palm. She's all wet, fresh from the shower in her hotel robe. Gilligan slaps a hand over his eyes even though everything he's seeing is in his mind.

"You came back."

Gilligan's head snaps up and he stares at George. The first mate is shocked into silence for a second. He swallows hard. He might as well face his last moments with dignity, so he stands up straighter, pulls his shoulders back, and takes a deep breath. "Yes, sir."

George smiles. Genuinely. "Good."

**END**

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><p><em>Shout out to Teebs! Thanks for being awesome, lady! We're gonna keep this board alive if it kills us! (Although then I guess that defeats the purpose).<em>

_Also, a shout out to Lilly! Thanks so much for all your consistent reviews over these many months. I wish you had a account so I could PM you personally. The fandom is dwindling at the moment, but I appreciate your consistent support and encouragement. I'm glad you enjoy my stories and perhaps you'll write some of your own one day. :)_

_PS: I have a companion piece to this running around in my head. Stay tuned for that._


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